He used to go over there and come and pick them and take them home
Did I ever show you where the persecutor shot the praying weaver, my dear?
I want to go home, mother
It’s good for you, dearie
Over there who did it, he did
Aye, it’s a sad story
He used to come here and pick the flowers
And think of the strange ways of the Lord and His glory
I wouldn’t ever worry about that sore throat of yours
A good hanging’s the best cure for it, I know (*laughter*)
Persecutor, bloody persecutor, persecutor, bloody persecutor, persecutor, persecutor, persecutor, persecutor
Duncan Jopp, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken from this place to the tolbooth of Edinburgh
There by the hands of the common executioner, be hanged by the neck upon a gibbet until you are dead
(*indecipherable chattering*)
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